The Winds of Change and Other Stories

by Isaac Asimov

  Nilsson added bitterly, 'Except that the shut-off switch on the 'scope didn't shut off in time. A valve caught. You saw the unfinished back of the Moon and we had to stop the ship to prevent--'

  'That's it,' interrupted Mayer. 'Now repeat it, Oldbury. Repeat everything.'

  They walked down the corridor thoughtfully. Nilsson said, 'He seemed almost himself today. Don't you think so?'

  'There's improvement,' Mayer acknowledged. 'A great deal. But he's not through with therapy by any means.'

  Nilsson asked, 'Any hope with Davis?'

  Mayer shook his head slowly. 'That's a different case. He's completely withdrawn. Won't talk. And that deprives us of any handle with which to reach him. We've tried aldosterone, ergot therapy, counterelectroencephalography, and so on. No good. He thinks if he talks, we'll put him in an institution or kill him. You couldn't ask for a more developed paranoia.'

  'Have you told him we know?' 'If we do, we'll bring on a homicidal seizure again and we may not be as lucky as we were in saving Oldbury. I rather think he's incurable. Sometimes, when the Moon is in the sky, the orderly tells me, Davis stares up at it and mutters, "Canvas," to himself.'

  Nilsson said soberly, 'It reminds me of what Davis himself said in the early part of the trip. Ideas die hard. They do, don't they?'

  'It's the tragedy of the world. Only--' Mayer hesitated.

  'Only what?'

  'Our unmanned rockets, three of them - the information devices on each stopped transmitting just before the boomerang swing and not one returned. Sometimes I just wonder--'

  'Shut up!' said Nilsson fiercely.

  Introduction to IGNITION POINT!

  I happen to be a professional speaker as well as a professional writer. In fact, I have been speaking (for money) for thirty years now, and doing fairly well. There is an organization that puts out an annual entitled Finding the Right Speaker in which various lecture agencies advertise their wares (and you can be sure that my lecture agent mentions me in his advertisement). The organization thought they would punch up their 1981 edition with a story and they naturally thought of me. I agreed, thinking it would be a pleasant combination of my two careers, wrote 'Ignition Point!' in January 1981, and it appeared in the annual. Since I'm certain the readership of the annual is limited, it is with pleasure I include the story in this collection so that it might find its more appropriate science fiction market.

  11

  Ignition Point!

  Let me get this straight,' said Anthony Myers, leaning across his desk towards the man in the chair facing him. 'Your computer does not write the speech?'

  'No, you do. Or someone else does.' Nicholas Jansen was quite composed. He was a small man, very neatly dressed, with an old-fashioned knotted tie that did not seem to make him the least bit self-conscious in a world of turtlenecks.

  He said, 'What I have developed is a series of words, phrases, sentences that induce reactions in specific groups of people, divided by sex, age, ethnic groups, language, occupation, place of residence or almost anything else conceivable. If you could describe the audience your man would be addressing in sufficient detail, then I could supply you with precisely the sort of thing his talk should include. The more we know about the audience the more accurately my computer program can produce the key words and phrases. They are woven into a speech--'

  'Can they . . . will they make sense?'

  'That's up to the ingenuity of the speech writer, but it doesn't really matter. If you're pounding a drum, you might get the audience stirred up until their feet and hearts are pounding with it; till they reach ignition point. Sense is analogous to tune, but a drum doesn't have to beat out a tune; it merely establishes a rhythm. You can put in as much tune as you can, but it is the rhythm you're after. Do you understand?'

  Myers rubbed his chin and stared at the other thoughtfully. 'Have you tried this before?'

  Jansen smiled narrowly. 'Only unofficially. In a small way. Still, I know what I'm talking about. I'm an ochlologist--'

  'A what?'

  'A student of mob psychology, and the first, as far as I know, who has truly computerized the matter.'

  'And you know this will work - in theory.'

  'No, I know it might work - in theory.'

  'And you want to try it out on me. What if it doesn't work?'

  'Then what have you to lose? I'm not charging you. It's useful in my work, and if I may believe what I have been told, your man is lost if you don't use my services.'

  Myers drummed his fingers on the desk softly. 'Look. Let me explain about my man. He looks impressive. He's got a good voice. He's amiable and likeable. Properly handled I can make him a corporation executive, or an ambassador, or the President of the United States. The trouble is he has no brains to speak of and he needs me to supply them. But the one thing he has to be able to do without me is to deliver a speech in such a way as to fool people into thinking he does have brains. This he cannot do, even if the speech is written out for him. The speech may be intelligent and yet he can't say it in such a way as to make himself seem intelligent. Do you think you can write a speech better than I can?'

  'Not better. Just foolproof. I can make it possible for him to push the right buttons and ignite the audience.'

  'What do you mean, ignite?'

  'To catch fire. Isn't that what ignite means? Every crowd has its ignition point, though every different crowd requires something different for ignition.'

  'You may be selling me a load of nonsense, Mr Jansen. There's no speech so foolproof that a nincompoop won't spoil it.'

  'On the contrary. A nincompoop might deliver it more surely than you could, since he won't be thinking for himself. May I meet him? - That is, if you want my services?'

  'You understand that everything said here is confidential.'

  'Certainly. Since I intend to turn this to commercial use eventually, I am more interested in confidentiality than you are.'

  Barry Winston Bloch was not quite forty. He had played semipro baseball in his younger days. He had made his way through a mid-western college with minimal effort and he had been moderately successful as a salesman. His appearance was impressive, not because he was handsome but because he looked physically powerful, and gave the impression of possessing a mature wisdom. His hair was already showing streaks of grey and he had a way of throwing his head up and smiling warmly that filled you full of confidence in him.

  It took an hour or so, usually, to realize that there was nothing behind the amiability but additional amiability.

  Right now, Bloch felt uncomfortable. Ever since he had tied up with Myers, he had been a prey to discomfort. He wanted to get ahead; it was his secret desire to be a congressman and sometimes he wondered if he might not be a great evangelist, but the trouble was that people made him nervous. After he had used up his big grin, it came time to talk and he never had anything particular to say.

  And no one had ever made him feel quite as uncomfortable as this little man with his gimlet eyes, who would sit there absolutely motionless while Bloch read his speeches. It was hard enough to talk to a real audience which rustled and coughed and seemed to be annoyed with him for not finishing. This little man - he had to remember his name was Jansen - who never responded in any way just choked him off.

  No, he responded in one way - he invariably handed Bloch another speech to read. Each one was a little different and each one appealed to him somehow, but he never felt as if he did them justice. It made him sad somehow - and ashamed.

  The manuscript presented to him on this day seemed worse than all the others. He looked at it in dismay. 'What are all these marks?'

  'Well now, BB,' Myers adopted the soothing tone he almost always used with Bloch, 'just let Mr Jansen explain.'

  'It's direction. It's something you must learn, but it won't be difficult. A dash means a pause, an underlining means an emphasis. A downward arrow before a word means you let your voice drop a couple of notes; an upward arrow means you let it rise.
A curved arrow means you let things fade off in contempt, if it curves downwards. If it curves upwards, your voice rises in anger. A parenthesis means a small smile; a double parenthesis means a grin; a triple parenthesis means a chuckle. You never laugh out loud. A line over a word means you look grim; a double line means you repeat. An asterisk--'

  Bloch said, 'I can't remember all that.'

  Myers, from behind Bloch, mouthed worriedly, I don't think he will.

  Jansen seemed unperturbed by the double denial. 'You will with practice. The stakes are high and worth a little trouble.'

  Myers said, 'Go ahead, BB. Just give it a read-through and Mr Jansen will help out as you go along.'

  Bloch looked as though he wished to object further, but his native amiability won out. He put the manuscript on the lectern and began to read it. He stumbled, peered at the manuscript with a frown, began again, and skidded to a halt.

  Jansen explained and Bloch began again. They spent an hour over the first three paragraphs before calling a halt.

  Myers said, 'It's awful.'

  Jansen said, 'How did you do the first time you tried to ride a bicycle?'

  Bloch repeated the speech all the way through twice that day; twice more the second day. A second speech was prepared, not quite the same, but just as empty of real content.

  After a week, Bloch said, 'I'm getting the hang of it. It seems to me that I'm getting so that it sounds good.'

  Myers said, with hollow hopefulness, 'I think so, too.'

  Jansen said to Myers afterwards, 'He's doing better than I expected. He's got a certain potentiality, but--'

  'But what?'

  Jansen shrugged. 'Nothing. We'll just have to see.'

  Jansen said, 'I think he's ready for an audience now, provided it's a homogeneous one which we can analyse accurately.'

  'The American Association of Textile Weavers needs a speaker and I think I can place BB with them. Can you handle that audience?'

  'Weavers?' said Jansen, thoughtfully. 'The economic position would be homogeneous and I suspect the educational level would not be too wide a spread. I would need to have a breakdown on what city and states they represent and on the percentages coming from establishments of different size. Age, sex and the usual, too, of course.'

  'I'll see what I can dig up from the Union, but there isn't much time, you know.'

  'We'll try to work quickly. We've got a great deal of the basics worked out. Your man is learning how to deliver a speech.'

  Myers laughed. 'He's got to the point where he almost convinces me. - You know, I wouldn't want him in Congress. I would want him on television, selling my views - his, I mean--'

  'Your views, you mean,' said Jansen, dryly. 'He has none.'

  'It doesn't matter. I'm counting my chickens--'

  Bloch did well at the AATW cocktail party. He followed his instructions, had smiled, had talked just a bit but not too much, had told a harmless joke or two and dropped a few names, and had, for the most part, done a lot of listening and nodding.

  And yet Myers, from his table up front, felt a certain tightness. If BB flopped, they could try again, but if he flopped, would there be enough in him to make it worth his while to try again? This might be the test that would show that BB just didn't have it. What a waste, with that appearance! With that Roman senator head of his!

  He stole a glance at Jansen, who sat at his left. The little man seemed utterly composed but there was a slight contraction of the eyebrows, as though there were a secret worry gnawing at him.

  The dinner was over, the various business announcements were being made, the committee was being thanked, the people seated on the dais were being introduced - all the maddening details that seemed to be designed for no other purpose than to place additional unnecessary strain upon the speaker.

  Myers stared earnestly at Bloch, caught his eye, and held up two fingers briefly. Go in and get them, BB!

  Would he? The speech was an odd one, almost quixotic. It would read oddly in the papers if it ever made the news columns, but it was full of button pushers - according to Jansen and his computer.

  Bloch was standing up now. He stepped easily to the lectern and put the manuscript before him. He was always good at that; doing it slickly and unobtrusively so that the audience never really had it rubbed in their face that the speech was going to be read.

  Myers thought, not entirely irrelevantly, of the time he had attended a meeting at which the speaker had somehow managed to knock off his manuscript with an overenergetic gesture. The manuscript could be picked up and rearranged but an audience died at that moment and could not be revived.

  Bloch smiled at the audience and began slowly. (Don't wait too long to speed up, BB.) He didn't. He quickened the beat. At times, he stopped briefly to puzzle out a symbol but fortunately, that sounded like deliberation, the kind of thought you would expect of mature wisdom. It helped to have that appearance.

  Then he spoke still more quickly and emotionally and, to Myers's surprise, he could feel the drumbeats start. There were those key phrases, with just the right kind of emphasis, and, in response, he could feel the audience stir.

  Laughter came on cue and at one point, there was a patter of applause, Myers had never heard applause interrupt Bloch before.

  Bloch's face looked a little flushed and at one point he brought his fist down on the lectern and the little fluorescent lamp shook. (Don't knock it over, BB!) The audience stamped its feet in response.

  Myers felt the mounting excitement within himself, even though he knew exactly how carefully the speech had been prepared. He leaned towards Jansen. 'He's igniting the audience, wouldn't you say?'

  Jansen nodded once. His lips scarcely moved. 'Yes. And maybe--'

  Bloch had paused briefly in his talk - just long enough to tighten the audience into a knot of tension - and then he brought his hand down savagely on the lectern, picked up the manuscript in a crumpled mess, and threw it aside. 'I don't need this,' he said, his voice rising into a distinct note of triumph. 'I don't want it. I wrote it in cold blood before I had you all before me. Let me speak now from my heart, as it comes to me, standing here before you; let me tell you all, friends and Americans, you and I, together, what I see in the world today and what I want to see, and believe me, my friends, the two are not - the - same.' There was a roar in response.

  Myers clutched at Jansen wildly. 'He can't make it on his own!'

  But he could and did. He spoke through and over the applause and the shouting. It scarcely mattered if he were heard. He raised both arms as though to embrace the audience and a voice shouted, 'Go on! Give it to them!'

  Bloch gave it to them. Exactly what he said scarcely mattered but when it was over, there was a wild and jubilant standing ovation.

  'What happened?' said Myers, through the noise. (He was applauding as loudly as everyone else.) Jansen remained seated, in a strange attitude of collapse. He clutched at Myers, drew him close, and said in a shaking voice, 'Don't you see what happened? It was a one-in-a-million shot. Just towards the end I began to wonder if it were possible. It can happen--'

  'What are you talking about?'

  'The audience ignited and Bloch was speaking to an ignited audience for the first time in his life, and speakers have their ignition point, too. Bloch himself ignited, and an ignited speaker can carry public opinion and move mountains.'

  'Who? BB?'

  'Yes.'

  'Well, that's great.'

  'Is it? When ignited, he's got power, and if he finds out he has, why would he need you? Or me? And if so, where will he go? There have been great charismatics before who have not always led to glory.'

  Bloch was with them, people crowding about him. He said to Myers in a breathless undertone, 'That was easy! I feel great!' He turned to those about him, laughing, holding them all with no trouble.

  Myers looked after him, confused; Jansen looked after him, afraid!

  Introduction to IT IS COMING

  Nearly every
year, Field Enterprises, Inc. persuades me to do a four-part essay which they then peddle to various newspapers. In 1978, however, they came up with the notion of my doing a four-part science fiction story, the whole not to be more than five or six thousand words in length. I worried about that, but decided to tackle the project and wrote the story while I was on a train trip to California. (Since I am the world's poorest traveller, it was good that I had something that served as a powerful distractant.) Field Enterprises was satisfied and they distributed it to various clients in early 1979. I include the story here with just a faint hesitation, however, for it was necessary to begin each part with a very " brief recapitulation for those newspaper readers who had not read the earlier instalments, or, having read them, did not remember them. I will have to ask you to exercise a certain tolerance, therefore, at the few words of repetition that you won't need.

  12

  It is Coming

  PART I

  When we finally heard from the Universe, it was not from some distant star. The signals did not reach us across the vastness of interstellar space, travelling for light-years of distance and years of time. They did not. They came from our own solar system. Something (whatever it was) was inside our solar system and was approaching. It (whatever it was) would be in Earth's neighbourhood in five months unless it accelerated or veered away.

  And it was up to Josephine and myself- and Multivac -to make the decisions as to what to do.

  At least we had warning. If it (whatever it was) had arrived fifty years ago - say in 1980 - it would not have been detected so quickly, and perhaps not at all. It was the great complex of radio telescopes in the Sea of Moscow on the other side of the Moon that detected the signals, located them, followed them. And that telescope, as it happened, had been operational for only five years.

  But doing something about it was up to Multivac in its lair in the Rockies. All that the astronomers could say was that the signals were not regular and not utterly random, so that they probably contained a message. It would have to be up to Multivac, however, to interrupt that message if interpretation was possible.